


Homelands & Migrations

by littlemonstrous



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, Angst, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slash, Suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-29
Updated: 2012-10-08
Packaged: 2017-11-11 00:08:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/472265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemonstrous/pseuds/littlemonstrous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This wasn't something John could fight. It wasn't something an entire city could fight. And those facts frightened Sherlock to the point of sickness. John was alone in a London turned feral, and Sherlock couldn't get to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Is there world? Are they still calling it that?

_ Liban said it came out of the forest. Joseph said it came in on the delivery cart from Bricklewood, hidden under a pile of plucked chickens. Dixie said it crawled out of Mr. Palmyra's basement and that he'd been keeping it down there for years. It got too strong for the chains to hold and it turned on him, she said. That's why they found Mr. Palmyra spread halfway up the walls of his own shed. _

___ But they didn't see it arrive with their own eyes. I did. I was out fishing. I watched it being carried down the dark end of the river and in to the creek. It got tangled up in the reeds. After a while it managed to get out on to the bank and started staggering towards the lights of the town. It looked a little like our pa did when he got the wasting sickness, aside from the blood around its mouth. And the hunk torn out of its neck. _

___ Dixie got closest to the truth though. It certainly was Thomas Palmyra that was unfortunate enough to be first person it got hold of. It must've been starved, because that smear of gore was all that was left of him. It found Lissie Kirkwell next. It bit her, but she got away. Her folks called the doctor half an hour later when she started sweating cold. Dr. Holscht said was a blood infection. Lissie Kirkwell bit Dr. Holscht. Dr. Holscht went home. Dr. Holscht bit his wife. _

___ All the while, the thing that started this whole goddamn mess was reeling around town. We saw Bern Johnson shoot it after shouting something about rabies. Two shotgun blasts, straight to the chest. We all saw it go down. _

_ We all saw it get back up again. _

\- From the journal of Gregory Handfast, retrieved from Flashpoint One.

***

When Sherlock woke it was three fifteen in the morning and he was alone. He was in a bed that wasn't his own, in a house that wasn't 221b. Mycroft had made a half-hearted attempt at masking their whereabouts but Sherlock had worked it out within ten minutes of exiting the car ( _particular dispersal of trees, planted purposefully not grown naturally, chalk in the soil, bitterns wheeling overhead_ ). They were in Kentmere, in a building secured by the government, and Mycroft had him under what amounted to house arrest.

The room smelled of mold. It was warm enough to be oppressive but the windows required a keycard to open. Sherlock lay on top of the blankets and listened to the faint sounds drifting up the stairs from the kitchen. He needed to either find something to do or go back to sleep, because if he lay there long enough he would just end up thinking about-

He forced himself to stop. It had been nine days. Nine days since everything went to hell and Mycroft whisked him out of London, whilst Sherlock fought tooth and nail because the only person that mattered had been left behind in a city that was burnt and dying. With every hour that passed the odds piled up against John. He was strong, and he was brave. Sherlock had seen him go up against armed assassins, seen how calmly and precisely he could end a man's life. But this wasn't something John could fight. It wasn't something an entire city could fight. And those facts frightened Sherlock to the point of sickness. John was alone in a London turned feral, and Sherlock couldn't get to him.

The idea that John might already be dead was not one that Sherlock was willing to entertain.

Sleep was a lost cause. He hauled himself out of bed and searched through the holdall Mycroft had produced for a clean shirt. He hadn't had time to fetch any of his own things. All he had were his phone and the handfuls of miscellania in his coat pockets. The mobile networks were all down, but he kept trying anyway.

_ John. Tell me where to find you. SH _

__ He put the phone back in his pocket, not bothering to wait for the tone that told him the message had failed to send.

***

'No, Sherlock.'

'Are you honestly expecting me to just sit about twiddling my thumbs?'

'I'm expecting you to stay where you are safe.' Mycroft set down his empty teacup (N _o sugar where he usually has two, unlikely to be sticking to the diet at at time like this out of choice. Rationing most probable._ ) and stood, retrieving his jacket from the back of the chair. 'I won't tell you again.'

Sherlock's fists balled in his lap.  Like it or not, Mycroft was his best source of information for the time being. Pushing him away would be foolish, but it was taking patience he didn't currently have to keep his tone even.

'Let me work. You're fully aware that I can do the job of three of your researchers and twice as quickly . Allow me that much.'

'I don't have the time to indulge you right now.'

'Oh for God's sake!' Sherlock slammed both hands down on the table. 'You're not babysitting me, sitting me in a corner and telling me to amuse myself whilst the adults talk!' He paused and took a deep breath, making an active effort to calm himself. 'You know the scope of my abilities, Mycroft. If you're going to refuse to let me use them, let me go back.'

Mycroft regarded him for a moment, his expression unreadable. 'Leaving is out of the question, I'm afraid.' he said eventually. 'As far as the work is concerned you shall have to wait for me to speak to the appropriate people.' He shrugged on his coat. 'Until then I need you to be co-operative. I assure you that it brings me no pleasure to keep you pent up like this, Sherlock, but needs must. Give me this small measure of comfort in knowing that at least one person I hold dear is safe.'

Sherlock stared at him, silent. Mycroft reached in to a pocket and placed something on the table. A pack of cigarettes. 'I'll be back in a day or so. Do try to get some sleep.'

He exited the room. Sherlock dropped his head in to his hands. He'd been awake for twenty four hours. After rattling about the house looking for an unsecured window or door leading outside he'd admitted defeat and retreated to the kitchen to think. The place was completely locked down and despite his best attempts – reasoning, threatening, even pleading when he'd felt particularly desperate – the guards had remained stoically silent.

He needed a window of opportunity, a slip in procedure, some sort of bloody  _distraction_ . A persistent sense of dread had coiled itself quietly in his stomach , tightening painfully any time he thought of John.  He told himself that this state of affairs wouldn't be – couldn't be - long term, but a little whisper of doubt kept winding its way to the front of his mind. 

_What if it is? What if the inside of this house is all that I'm going to see for God knows how long? What if there's nothing left out there to escape to? What if John is-_

__ No.

He stood and fetched a glass to pour himself some water in an attempt to tamp down the hysteria that was threatening to claw its way out of him. His hands were shaking slightly as he lifted the glass to his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work title is from a translation of Rimbaud's 'Solde'. Chapter title is from Peter Gizzi's 'Bardo'.
> 
> This is the first fic I've ever posted anywhere. Reviews would be very welcome.


	2. lift me from this battlefield and take me home

Afghanistan hadn't prepared him for heat like this. For the awful, ashy, stinging winds that whipped down every street. It hadn't prepared him for panic like this; for fear like this.

It hadn't prepared him for the thing that was currently blocking the only way out of the shop.

'Pick it up! PICK IT UP!'

There was a boy outside, standing a few yards away. There was a length of metal piping by the his feet but he hadn't so much as glanced at it. His eyes were fixed on the thing in the doorway. It was making an unholy noise right in the back of its throat: a noise caught somewhere between a death rattle and a snarl. It looked like it used to be a middle aged woman up until recently, but whatever it was now it most certainly was not human any more and why wasn't he picking up the fucking pipe and oh god why was he stepping towards-

'Mum?'

Whether it recognised the word or just reacted to the sound, the creature was spurred in to motion. It threw itself out in to the street, colliding with the boy and digging its nails in to his face. The boy dropped to his knees. John grit his teeth and darted past the pair, forcing down revulsion at using the distraction.

The first pale streaks of dawn were beginning to appear overhead, which meant that he had less than an hour to find shelter. After jogging down a few streets he stopped in the middle of the road, turning in a slow circle and assessing his options with a soldier's eye. Houses were either crawling with the infected or woefully insecure. The armed civilian mobs tended to use the smaller back streets. Whatever military the government had bestowed upon the city – nowhere near the numbers they actually had, which either meant that they were needed elsewhere or that they were on the verge of giving up London as lost – were concentrated in the bigger open spaces that were on higher ground. And what he'd seen up on Hampstead Heath a few days ago killed any hope he'd had that he could seek help from them. 

It would have to be a house. He turned down one of the residential streets. Contrary to what instinct would tell most people, the ones with their doors wide open were the best bet. Whatever was inside would probably have wandered out already. In those first few days of the infection, when everything was a blind panic, some families had boarded up all their windows and doors only to have one person turn and attack the rest once the escape routes had been curtailed. 

John had learnt these things very quickly. He didn't want to learn any more. He didn't want any further demonstrations of just how utterly fucked up his world had become. 

*** 

The house he'd picked stood empty. After double checking each room he went in to the kitchen and set his bag down on the table. He drew the blinds. He tested the catch on the back door, just in case he needed to make a swift exit. He went to try the taps in case this was one of the few places that still had- 

-and came to a halt. The sink held about an inch of water. Standing in the water were half a dozen little cacti in plastic pots. Whoever had lived there had taken the time to see to their houseplants before fleeing. Like they were coming back. Like they were fucking coming back. 

It was almost too much for him. He dropped in to one of the kitchen chairs and fisted his hands in his hair, breathing heavily. Of course they weren't coming back. The whole street would probably be firebombed once the government finally gave up and decided to raze the lot to the ground. His hands dropped to the table and he leant back in his chair, eyes closed. A tiredness like poison had worked its way in to his bones. He'd been carrying it around with him ever since he'd left Baker Street. He'd pinned a note to the door of 221b, explaining that he'd gone to fetch Molly from St. Barts and instructing Sherlock to come and find them at Mrs Hudson's niece’s place in East Finchley. The fact that Molly wasn't with him and that he'd barely made it past Highgate Ponds before having to double back stood testament to how utterly that plan had failed. 

He sighed and pulled his bag towards him. He'd only managed to grab a few things from the shop earlier (and despite the fact that the zombie apocalypse seemed to be well and truly upon them, his conscience had still prompted him in to leaving a few quid by the till). He hadn't eaten a proper meal in about a week, but the twin impetuses of adrenaline and fear had dissipated his hunger. 

More out of habit than anything he set about opening a can of vegetables and ate without paying much attention to what it was. He used to spend the hours he was holed up hiding from the daylight trying to figure out a plan, poring over a battered A to Z and calculating distances. He'd steadfastly pushed aside thoughts of Sherlock, concentrating instead on covering ground whilst it still seemed important. He'd since stopped trying. The thoughts intruded, and with them came a sick, empty feeling. A sense of something vital having been lost. A dull bruise somewhere deep in his heart. 

He'd stopped praying to be reunited with the other man. Because as greatly as he feared not finding Sherlock at all, it was nothing compared to the sheer terror that accompanied the thought that he might find him too late. That one day soon he might be facing down a horde of the infected and catch sight of that tousled dark hair and stupid fucking coat amongst them. He stopped praying and stopped planning and stopped believing that there was ever going to be anything more from now on than just existing day to day. 

*** 

No birds heralded the dawn. An unearthly quiet had descended upon the city. Buildings burned. Somewhere in the suburbs, his head pillowed on his arms, John slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from D.A Powell's 'To Last'.
> 
> As always, comments warm my tiny little heart.
> 
> I've reviewed my predicted posting frequency, and I think it I'll be aiming to get a chapter up every ten days give or take.


	3. we are here as on a darkling plain

It had been a long while since Sherlock had needed to navigate without landmarks. London was easy: the river, the tourist traps, the churches – add them up and you could triangulate your position relative to everything else in a matter of seconds. Big, solid, human-infused spaces were workable. But these were the moors. All he had were the vague shadows of the hills rising out of the darkness and the pinpricked starlight. He'd never deleted celestial navigation (despite deeming most of the rest of the cosmos irrelevant) but doing it by sight alone was difficult even for him.

_(Polaris. Merak. Dubhe. Calculate the angular elevation from the horizon. Lunar body, fingernail thin this time of the month. Calculate the fix. Keep walking.)_

And walking was just so _boring._ Like when he had to force his brain down a notch during conversations with normal people: slow and repetitive and – pardon the pun – pedestrian. Running was better. Running was like when his brain made the correct connections in the shortest amount of time, and the case was solved just like that and John's face would light up in admiration and he would tell him for the hundredth time how brilliant he was.

Sherlock still marveled at how easily John kept up. Almost everyone else stumbled at the first hurdle – left when he'd said one cutting thing too many, disappeared after finding themselves in yet another life-or-death situation that may or may not have been Sherlock's doing. But John didn't need to know the routes he had mapped out in his head, because he could read Sherlock's body language closely enough to understand the unspoken _left here'_ s and _speed up_ 's. He didn't need to make the same split-second deductions because he always understood the implication, if not the method.

Which was why Sherlock was trudging across an endless expanse of moorland at a ridiculous hour of the night in the freezing cold: because being without John was intolerable. He would walk until he found a more efficient mode of transport. He'd failed to come up with a logical plan for once he actually made it to the city. The idea of having some innate homing sense that would draw him back to John was sentimental in the extreme, but he clung to it. After all, they'd found each other that first time: back when John was resigning himself to a life of utter mediocrity and Sherlock was convinced that there wasn't a single person on the planet that could put up with him. They'd found each other.

They'd continued finding each other. The time that Sherlock had been gripped by a fortnight-long black mood that sapped every last mote of energy from him, and John had been his only constant – his guide back in to the world of the living. The time John found out that one of his army friends had been killed by an IED outside of Kabul and Sherlock had accompanied him to the funeral. The time John had followed Stamford in to the lab at Bart's and Sherlock had looked up and thought, _Oh. There you are._

The time that John had stopped in the middle of one of their domestics, reached up and kissed him. 

Every day he spent apart from John was a vacuum: a blackened, stifling crush of emptiness that absorbed his words and thoughts and gave back nothing. For the past week Sherlock had barely moved from his bed. He'd given up on trying to pick the locks. The only noteworthy event recently had been Anthea arriving at the house one afternoon with another holdall of clothes. He'd barely bothered to look at her, uninterested in gleaning information from her appearance and demeanor.

'Your brother is worried about you,' She'd said in a rare display of candor. 'Ever since you stopped taking the kitchen appliances apart. It'd be much appreciated if you could break something or provoke one of the staff to violence as a token gesture. Just to reassure him.'

Sherlock had said nothing, and eventually she'd gone away.

The opportunity when it came was a slight, dull thing. A door left open during a delivery of supplies. If he hadn't been passing by that particular hallway at that particular time he would have missed it altogether. As it was he'd slipped out whilst the guards were unloading a pallet. There was no time for an appraisal of the situation or to gather his few possessions. After skirting through the shrubs that surrounded the building he'd come to the wire mesh fence and struggled under and out, only then breaking in to a run to put a copse of trees between himself and the house.

That had been several hours ago. Now it was raining, he had no food, no weapons, and no guarantee that he was headed in the right direction. Somewhere in the distance a fox screamed. Sherlock stopped and cocked his head, but he wasn't listening to the animal. Faint now but growing louder, the sound of a car engine drifted towards him.

_Diesel engine. Four cylinder. Michelin Latitude Cross tubeless tires. Probably a Land Rover. One of the newer makes: from the past eighteen months or so._

One of the ones he'd seen parked outside the house earlier, in other words. A quick glance around confirmed that there was no cover for miles. The rain was getting heavier. Sherlock stopped where he was, his hair plastered to his face. Within minutes the car had overtaken him and swerved around, blocking his way.

He considered the feasibility of overpowering the guard and stealing the car.The headlights were too bright for him to make out the driver's features. At a rough estimate he had a fighting chance against maybe six of the fifteen or so regulars that he'd seen around the building, allowing for his diminished strength and agility through inactivity. Could dart round the side of the vehicle and use the door's momentum to floor the driver as they stepped out. Could disarm them and use the weapon to knock them unconscious. But they had already exited the vehicle and were coming towards him. After an incredulous pause, Sherlock started laughing.

Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys,
> 
> This isn't the full chapter that I wanted to put up, but I'm going on holiday for ten days tomorrow and I wanted to update before then. The second part of this chapter - the actual confrontation between Sherlock and Mycroft - will go up once I get back. The chapter after that will focus on John again.


	4. who invented the human heart, i wonder?

John was lost, the dead were walking, and his brother had just driven across a waterlogged smear of moorland to find him. It was utterly, horribly hilarious.

'What in God's name do you think you're doing?' Mycroft shouted. He was in his shirtsleeves, his shoes and trouser cuffs spattered with mud, his face twisted with fury. 'Have you gone completely insane?' He grabbed Sherlock's lapels and shook him. 'Do you have any idea, any idea  _at all-'_

Sherlock couldn't reply. He gripped Mycroft's forearms, half holding on and half holding him away. Mycroft was still shouting, his words drowned out by the rain that drove in to the ground in torrents. He was moving, trying to drag him to the Land Rover. Sherlock yanked himself free and stumbled backwards, shaking his head mutely.

'Sherlock Holmes, get in the bloody car!' Mycroft roared, stepping forwards as if to grab hold of him again. Sherlock held up both hands.

'No. I won't.' Each word was a monumental effort. His chest and ribs ached.

_I would rather it was you._ He realised.  _If I could switch things so you were out there and John was here, I would do it in an instant._

Bit not good.

He didn't know the words to make Mycroft understand. Their shared view of emotional investment as messy and distasteful had been one of the ways that they has kept themselves apart from the world. Another thing that set Sherlock above all the funny little normal people and their funny little normal brains. 

Or not, as it turned out.

John loved him steadily, unyieldingly, and in return Sherlock gave back every last ounce of fierce, desperate devotion that he had never considered himself capable of giving. John may frequently have exclaimed that Sherlock's deductive skills were unbelievable, but he had made the other man do the impossible. He had made him see himself as utterly human and breakable. He'd made him simultaneously weaker than he'd ever been, and stronger than he'd ever known he could be.

And Mycroft would never understand that.

He let himself be lead to the car. Mycroft didn't start the engine straight away: just sat there with both hands gripping the wheel, staring very hard at the dashboard.

'Why?' He asked, after an uncomfortable silence. 'After everything I explained, why?'

'You hardly explained.' Sherlock muttered, not looking at his brother. Mycroft sighed.

'Things are worse than you realise. Much worse. If I hadn't taken you out of the city when I did there wasn't any guarantee that I'd be able to get you out at all.'

'You think so little of my ability to keep myself alive?'

'It isn't just the infected that pose a threat. The government's response looks likely to be... thorough.'

Sherlock looked up at this. 'You mean-'

'It's the only way.' Mycroft's face was grey and drawn, his tone resigned. 'It's spreading too quickly to contain.'

'When?'

'I haven't been given that information yet. Soon. Days.'

Sherlock leant back in his seat, eyes closed, his heart a leaden weight in his chest.

'What were you going back for?' Mycroft asked.

'Surely that much was obvious.' 

'Indulge me. Explain why you thought it reasonable to leave without a word, unarmed.'

Suddenly Sherlock was furious. Furious at the walls that they'd built up so effectively that now, when it mattered the most, Mycroft was unable to see what should have been blatant. Furious that it hadn't even crossed his mind that anyone had been left behind.

'If you thought for one second that keeping me here isn't killing me just as effectively as putting a foot wrong out there would, you're stupider than I thought.' He hissed, eyes narrowed. 'If you thought for one second that I was  _willing_ to leave John out there whilst I hid in the middle of nowhere, whilst you-'

He broke off and took a deep, shuddering breath. 'You can't pick me up and set me down wherever you want me to be, keep me under lock and key with no information, then question my motivation. There was  _no_   _time._ ' He dropped his head in to his hands, unable to choke out any more.

He missed the shadow of realisation that passed across Mycroft's face, and the glint of resolve that followed it. All he heard, after a couple of minutes, was the key turning in the ignition. Nothing else was said during the drive back, nor when they arrived and Sherlock went straight up to his room. He didn't see Mycroft motioning to two of the guards to follow him in to the study. He didn't hear the crunch of gravel as another of the cars swung out of the driveway a few hours later. The only things that ran through his mind as he sat on the floor below the window were Mycroft's words from earlier: ' _Soon. Days.'_

Never, not even in the darkest depths of his addiction or the black moods that beset him, had he felt hopelessness akin to this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a quote from Lawrence Durrell's 'Justine'.
> 
> This is the second part of the previous chapter. I'd intended to post it all as one, but it got split up due to my going on holiday halfway through writing it. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone that's been reading, leaving comments and leaving kudos. It genuinely brightens up my day when I get feedback.


	5. when the night comes small fires go out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter includes character death.

John stood amidst the wreckage of what had once been New Scotland Yard. On a row of chairs at the other end of the room sat several members of the force. The ragged bite marks on each ranged from their faces to their legs, but the neat bullethole in each temple was uniform.

John surveyed them calmly. His gun hung from one hand by his side, a single bullet in the chamber. In the other he held a grubby piece of lined paper, upon which was written simply ' _We refuse to turn'_ , followed by the signatures of the dead men and women in front of him: Constable McKinley. Constable Wittaker. Constable Haresh. Sergeant Thoswell. Detective Inspector Lestrade.

Sleep was a distant, mocking memory. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. He'd channeled his very last reserves of energy in to getting to NSY, and now that he was there his options seemed to be limited to either picking another arbitrary location and forcing himself to reach it or...

Or following Lestrade's example. And at this point it seemed like more of an inevitability than a choice.

***

The last properly alive people he'd seen had been holed up in a community centre in Pimlico. He'd been running full-pelt down the road, a horde of the infected hard on his heels. Up ahead a couple of men were hauling what looked like a body wrapped in a picnic blanket out on to the street. They'd dropped it as John rounded the corner, darting back to the building and yelling over their shoulders for him to follow. He'd only just made it. They'd slammed and bolted the doors behind him and leant against them, breathing hard.

'How long had they been after you?' One of them asked. John shook his head.

'About ten minutes? Walked smack in to them coming out of Warwick Square.'

'They've been congregating round there.' Said the other man. 'People keep going in thinking they can sleep up a tree or something. Stupid buggers.'

John had stayed with them for a few evenings. He'd learnt that they were called Alf and Roger, and that they were trying to pull together enough supplies to get them to the Devonshire coast. They'd managed to scavenge a generator from somewhere, and John sat with them whilst they fiddled with a television antennae trying to get a picture. Most channels yielded nothing but static or the test card, but they'd caught a brief news report from somewhere in America. It showed dozens of men in hazmat suits spraying quicklime in to a pit of corpses.

'Reckon it's global by now?' Roger asked. Alf shrugged.

'If it ain't yet it will be soon.'

They didn't talk about the body that had been dumped outside.

***

'So what's your plan?' Alf asked John one morning as he sat repairing a stained tarpaulin. 'You trying to reach anyone?'

John shook his head. 'I was. I think it's too late now.'

'Ain't no sense in admitting defeat when you ain't seen nothing to tell you that.' Alf replied staunchly. 'Could be that they're out there trying to get to you.'

John thought of Sherlock walking in to 221B, seeing the note he'd left. 'I hope not. I hope if he's safe, he'll stay where he is.'

Alf regarded him shrewdly. 'Would you?'

John didn't reply.

***

He'd slipped away whilst the two men were asleep, leaving what little food he could spare by way of thanks. The night was bitterly cold. A thin, biting drizzle was coming down. Somewhere overhead in the distance he could hear a helicopter buzzing past. The few streetlights that were still working cast a sickly orange wash of light across the empty road. He trudged onwards, hyper aware of every little noise. Despite his earlier defeatism, some small part of him hoped that if he made it to Scotland Yard, Sherlock would be there waiting for him.

***

His legs felt like cotton wool. Tiny black dots danced at the edge of his vision. He knew the symptoms of exhaustion and malnourishment well enough, but observed them at a remove. His attention was solely focused on the gun in his hand. The single bullet.

The tapping at the door behind him.

He spun round, almost losing his balance.

'There's nothing there.'

Slowly he turned back. Sherlock was stood behind Lestrade's body, his hands in his coat pockets. Not a mark on him. John blinked and shook his head, his throat dry.

'You're not here either, though.' He managed finally. 'Are you?'

Sherlock's lips quirked. 'Of course not. You're in the midst of an extra-sensory hallucination.' He tutted. 'How many times have you berated me for missing meals? And look at you now. Poor show, Doctor Watson.'

'Thing is,' Said John, swaying slightly. 'I thought you'd be the only person I'd ever know that came back from the dead. But now everyone seems to be doing it. Funny, that.'

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. 'I was never actually dead, John.'

'Are you now?'

The detective shrugged, nonchalant. 'No way of knowing, is there? You never found me and now you're planning to shuffle off the mortal coil. Bit of a pathetic end. Disappointing. Boring.'

'You don't speak to me like that.'

'I don't.' Sherlock conceded. 'But this isn't really me talking. It's you. Your words to yourself. I'm just the mouthpiece.' He stepped forward, shadows dancing across his face. 'Why so guilty, John?'

'Because I failed.' John choked out. 'I didn't rescue you, or any of the others. I never even made it out of the city. I shot-'

Something thudded against the door. And again. Reflexively, John threw himself on the ground. He could see the door around the corner of the desk he was using for cover. It was rattling with every blow that landed on it, fists smearing blood across the large window that looked out on to the hallway.

'Do you think she forgives you, John?' Sherlock called, still stood in the middle of the room.

The glass was going to break. John caught a glimpse of long, matted hair and a torn sleeve.

'Do you think I forgive you?'

A hairline crack appeared, spiderwebbing outwards. John hauled himself to his feet and took aim, but his perception was all wrong; the creature in the hallway slipping in and out of focus, a tinny ringing echoing around his skull. Before he could pull the trigger his legs buckled underneath him. He was out cold before he even hit the ground.

He never heard the door crash open. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Philip Levine's 'Clouds'.
> 
> This one got written faster than I'd anticipated. I can't promise happy fluff any time soon, unfortunately. It's pretty much an angst-fest. I'm considering raising the rating for later chapters, but we'll see how it goes.


	6. you are the blood flowing through my fingers

He hardly ever told John that he loved him.

He showed it often: sometimes in ways that would make sense to outsiders ( _hand on the small of his back, brief smiles, a swift kiss on the cheek when he thought no one was watching),_ more often in ways that would only resonate between the two of them ( _confining body parts to labelled Tupperware containers in the fridge, refraining from snatching the phone and unleashing a precise, venomous tirade every time his conversations with Harry became difficult)._ But he hardly ever said those words - those exact words, in that exact order - out loud.

He'd said it that last night though. The night before they'd split up to go to Westminster and St Bart's respectively. The power had gone out again, and Sherlock's bedroom –  _their_ bedroom – was freezing. They'd retreated to the living room for the evening. John had managed to light a fire in the grate and they'd sat on the rug in front of it, a blanket wrapped around both of them.

They'd talked through their plan, agreed on times and routes. John had turned to Sherlock, his expression grave, and said, 'Listen. If anything happens and I'm not back when I've said I will be, promise that you'll-'

'No.' Sherlock interrupted curtly. John shook his head.

'Seriously, Sherlock. I need to know that you'll get out of the city if you can. Find Mycroft and get out.'

'No.'

John sighed, exasperated. 'There's no point in-' 

Again Sherlock cut him off, this time by leaning forwards and kissing him. It was a hard, possessive kiss: all nipping teeth and hands fisting in hair. After a moment's pause John responded in kind, hands sliding up Sherlock's arms to frame his face. Sherlock broke away, his forehead against John's, his breathing shallow.

'I love you.'

John had made a quiet, pained noise and hid his face in Sherlock's shoulder, gripping his waist tightly. Sherlock traced the curve of his spine with his fingertips, kissed the mess of dishwater blonde hair. Eventually John had looked up again, eyes reflecting dark in the firelight.

'I love you too.'

Ever so gently, Sherlock pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

* * *

Leaving John behind had never been part of the plan. If Mycroft could have just given him a little time, just enough for him to get back to 221b, everything would have been fine. But his brother had refused. He'd ordered the guards with him to drag Sherlock bodily to the waiting car and ignored his shouts.

And now that last time could possibly have been the  _very_ last time. And if Sherlock had known that he wouldn't have confined himself to telling John he loved him just once, because even his innate distaste for repetition would pale in to nothingness in the face of knowing that this would be his last chance. He would say the words over, and over, and over. As though they could cover the other man and keep him safe. As though they could bring him home.

* * *

The previous evening he'd been lead to an outbuilding by one of the guards. The building contained a surprisingly well stocked lab, including a few pieces of equipment that Sherlock hadn't come across before. 

'Your brother has left instructions for you to be provided with whatever it's in our capability to give, in order to aid you in researching the virus.' The guard said. He'd provided him with a key card. 'The lab will be available to you at any time. But you will have to go through basic infection tests each time you want to come from here in to the house proper.'

'Basic infection tests comprising what, exactly?'

The guard's mouth twisted humorlessly. 'We watch you from behind some reinforced glass, and if you start staggering around foaming at the mouth we shoot you.'

He stood in the lab now, hunched over a microscope. Focusing was proving difficult. The blood samples he was analysing were atypical, but whenever he tried to piece together the cells' behaviour with his prior knowledge of haematology the information slipped from his grasp. 

 _Leukocyte count above 25 to 30 x 10/L indicates a leukemoid reaction. Decrease in circulating neutrophil granulocytes indicates neutropenia. Risk of infection... Risk of infection..._  

Frustrated, he made a move to shove the microscope away, catching himself at the last moment. He sat down heavily, eyes closed. Usually he could retrieve the facts he needed with a minimum of effort, but right now he found his mind wandering to John time and time again. Case in point being half an hour earlier when he'd paused in trying to determine the white cell count of a sample and realised that he'd instead been trying to remember the exact pitch of the other man's laugh.

He forced his mind to clear and breathed deeply for a few moments. This was surmountable. He had proved his mastery of intrusive thoughts many times before. He could tamp them down. He could disregard them in favour of cold, hard logic.

He could delete them. Couldn't he? 

Cautiously, he went over the space in his mind that John occupied. John was safety and home. He was evenings in watching crap telly. He was Red Label tea and wheat toast. He was hideous jumpers and Dan Brown paperbacks and neatly rolled socks tucked away in a drawer. 

He was gunpowder. He was marksmanship and military bearing. He was lightning reflexes. He was nights spent racing through back streets and across roof tops.

He was warm skin and hitching breath and always,  _always_ the insistence that Sherlock was amazing, brilliant, beautiful. He was like everything in the world and like nothing that had come before or could come after. He was all the words Sherlock had never understood when people had spoken of a thing beloved.

Could that be deleted? Could something like that, once learned, be unlearned? Surely it would be like deleting gravity: he would still be earthbound but wouldn't understand what kept him there. The thought was dizzying, sickening.

The thought was one he would have to entertain seriously if he truly wanted to set his mind to the task at hand.

He had no idea how long he sat there, turning the problem over and over, trying to see it from an angle that didn't make him feel as though something had dug sharp talons in to his heart. Eventually a knock at the door dragged him back to the surface.

'Yes?'

A guard entered, one hand on the semi automatic slung around his chest. 'You're wanted back at the house, Mr Holmes.'

'For what?' 

'No idea, sir. Your brother stressed that it was important.'

Sherlock sighed and heaved himself to his feet. 'My brother's idea of importance and my own rarely coincide. I take it that he's here?'

'He is, sir.'

'Fine.'

* * *

Mycroft stood as Sherlock entered the kitchen, smoothing the creases from his jacket. 'Ah, Sherlock. I do apologise for taking you from your work.'

'What do you want.' Sherlock's voice was flat. Mycroft delicately picked a miniscule loose thread from his cuff, pointedly avoiding his brother's eyes.

'It has come to my attention that I may have made a... miscalculation. You must understand that we have all been doing the best that we can given the circumstances. However, I may have failed to take certain factors in to consideration when I-'

'Either spit it out or let me go back to the lab, Mycroft.' Sherlock interrupted. Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

'Yes, well. I do think that you ought to check the bedroom next to yours before you shut yourself away again.'

After a pause Sherlock turned on his heel and strode out of the room and up the stairs. He could hear Mycroft following behind him, but didn't stop to order him away. He came to a halt at the door beside his own.

'Don't wake him.' Mycroft said quietly, before turning and leaving his brother alone at the end of the hallway.

Slowly, his heart hammering in his chest, Sherlock opened the door.

The room was bathed in moonlight. Curled tightly in to himself under the duvet, John lay sleeping. He was still wearing his hooded sweatshirt. His jacket lay folded neatly on the chair by the window, a battered knapsack on the floor beneath it. There were shadows like half-moon bruises under his eyes and he had the scruffy beginnings of a beard. He looked like he hadn't eaten in days.

Sherlock moved around to the side of the bed and sat, tentatively placing a hand on his shoulder. John shifted and murmured something unintelligible, his hand disentangling itself from the blankets to clutch at Sherlock's.

There were more emotions than he could process coursing through him. There would be time enough for him to sort through them though: time enough for him to lay each one at John's feet and say  _Look. This is how I hurt. This is what I don't understand and these are the places where I missed you most._ John was here, and he was breathing, and there was time enough.

So Sherlock offered up a prayer of thanks to every god, saint and guardian angel that he didn't believe in, and he lapsed in to stillness and silence, waiting for the other man to come back to consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from 'You Are The Blood' by Castanets. The Sufjan Stevens version of this always makes me think of Sherlock and John.


End file.
